Dark Potter
by The Void Sage
Summary: Cursed by a misinterpreted prophecy, the one destiny chose to walk the edge of darkness and light. Left to be beaten, abused and broken, a dark insidious hate is awoken inside of him. Harry Potter forges his own path, a dangerous future awaits, the past holds the key, will human kind survive, will Harry be ready to face fate and death once more, or will the world fall to darkness?
1. SUMMARY AND WARNING

-KNOWLEDGE IS USEFUL, BUT POWER IS POWER-

-SUMMARY AND WARNING-

Cursed by a misinterpreted prophecy, the one destiny chose to walk the edge of darkness and light, his mother's sacrifice gave him renewed life, and left him a legacy to fulfill. Locked away by a two faced wizard, the so called "Leader of the light" left him to be beaten, abused and broken on the brink of death. Harry Potter, the "Chosen One" the "Boy-Who-Lived" must overcome and master the hate and bitter emptiness in his heart while facing oppression, lies and betrayal from all sides his cold merciless hate will not be denied, his bloodlust for those that wronged him will not be quenched . Awakening the old ways of magic Harry will stop at nothing until the corrupt and backwater magical world is burned to ash and those oppressed for centuries rise again and unite once more. But as Harry Potter forges his own path, a darker and more dangerous future awaits, the past holds the key, will human kind survive, will Harry be ready to face fate and death once more, or will the world fall to an even older evil?

Genres: Supernatural/Tragedy/Horror/Angst/Drama/Romance/Action/Hurt-Comfort

You all know the usual stories, evil manipulative Dumbledore, friend's betrayal, Harry unlocks a special magical inheritance and becomes lord of Hogwarts or death or the four Hogwarts founders or Merlin or some special magical powers from his ancestors or some such. Well this story is not so much like that, but a new perspective. While JK and many authors skip over the possible connotations of the true nature of the Potter-verse suggested in the books, this story goes over the darkest possible insinuation of the History of Harry Potter and even deeper into the existence of magic and why there is a pattern to the rise and fall of dark lords. The true and horrible background of Albus Dumbledore, and the dark depths that most of the wizarding world has sunk to will be exposed.

Although I admit it is one of the staples of HP fanfic, and nothing completely new, and although there are some stories out there that are between 500,000 to a million words that have explored the darker backgrounds and plot holes left by JK Rowling, I will endeavor to do the same.

Also I will try to keep the chapters at around 5,00-10,000 words.

FINALLY I WILL ONLY POST THIS ONCE BECAUSE I DON'T SEE THE POINT IN DOING SO EVERY CHAPTER AND IT WILL BE OFFICIAL AND IRIVOCABLE:

THIS IS A WORK OF FANFICTION, ANY ORIGINAL CHARCTERS AND REFERNCES ARE PROPERTY OF J.K.R or whoever they belong to or anyone not me, I DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER or any other merchandised or copyrighted materials or character. This is a work of fan fiction with the intent of free entertainment. Also a few if not a substantial number of chapters may feature work cited from the original books and edited or expanded upon in an effort to delve deeper into the canon story as a base for mine. In no way am I using J.K.R and passing it off as my own in any form of plagiarism, because I have no intent to profit of her work, however this story can be connoted to in depth fan exploration of behind the scene and pure conjecture and what if.

If you have a problem with anything I right please PM me so we can discuss it like civilized adults and see if we can resolve any issues you may have. Thank You


	2. -THE BEGINNING-

-THE BEGINNING- 

-PROLOUGUE-

-Feb 21st 1980, early morning-

Dumbledore sat calmly in his plush and ornate high back leather armchair as he leaned forward and pressed his hands together in a meditative pose while slowly savoring the tangy bittersweet flavor of his favorite lemon flavored candy. He took this moment to relax as the entire week had been very busy for him as he interviewed candidates for the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor as well as organizing Order movement and directing war efforts against Tom Riddle.

His eyes twinkled as he peered over his half-moon spectacles and observed the thin shawl and bead draped witch seated in front of him. Albus knew that Divination was a touchy and almost useless subject to teach, the techniques used in the ethereal arts could be taught, but only those gifted with the sight of prophetic vision could properly use them. Devoting an entire class at Hogwarts to the subject when only one in every thousand wizards might possibly possess some form of divining power would serve no other purpose other than to fill in the needed class slot that had previously belonged to Ancient Studies.

For his entire time as Headmaster, and previously as both the transfiguration professor and Deputy Headmaster of Armando Dippet, Dumbledore had been able to have various courses slowly withdrawn, even those that had been previously taught in the walls of the castle since it was first used as a school.

A simple few accidents or one too many anonymous complaints to the board of governors and the more dangerous classes were slowly phased out.

He knew he may be sacrificing the education of the future generations, but having lived for so long and seen the horrors that both Grindelwald and Voldemort unleashed when they strove to unravel the deeper and darker mysteries of magic had shown him a valuable lesson about power. Now students could achieve and strive for a proper standard magical education without fear of falling into darkness in a search for such power.

Dumbledore was brought out of his musings by the rustle of feathers from his familiar causing him to glance up at the previously nervous and disheveled applicant for the newly opened divinations position at Hogwarts which now sat stunned in her seat, a so called "Sear" by the name of Sybil Trelawney. The previous day he had invited her to his office for the interview for the position as the Divinations Instructor and after arriving this morning he had reviewed her credentials and asked for a few displays of her knowledge. While clearly knowledgeable in her arts Sybil demonstrated no true ability at divination.

Halfway through the interview however, while he debated on whether to hire her or not she had gone still and her eyes had rolled into her skull as a pallid greed aurora seemed to shift over her skin and eyes. Trelawney had begun to spasm and convulse in her chair before turning slowly to him and opening her mouth wide, her eyes glowing a pearly white. Without moving a deep and dry echoing voice sounded from her mouth as she became stone still. With a rattling breath she began to recite in what he recognized to be both old Hebrew and Arabic overlaid simultaneously in a hollow rasp:

_عندما_ _يتراجع_ _رمضان_ _والمد_ _والجزر_ _من_ _الحرب_ _بدوره_ _سوف_ _يولد_ _المحارب_ _من_ _مصير__. __تحدى_ _ثلاث_ _مرات_ _من_ _شر_ _واحد،_ _مع_ _أنه_ _يعلم_ _القوى_ _لا__. __تميزت_ _الظلام،_ _أعلاه_ _له_ _انه_ _سوف_ _ترتفع_ _في_ _القوة_ _والإرادة__. __الظل_ _الظل_ _داخل_ _سيتم_ _بظلالها_ _على_ _الضوء_ _الظلام_ _يرتدي_ _وجه_ _الله__. __التوازن_ _من_ _خلال_ _الحرب_ _على_ _الرغم_ _من_ _الرب_ _لا_ _يمكن_ _العثور_ _على_ _السلام_ _أثناء_ _وجود_ _العدو__._

כאשר הרמדאן דועך והגאות והשפל של המלחמה להפוך את הלוחם של גורל ייוולד. שלוש פעמים קראו תיגר של רשע אחד, עם כוחות שהוא יודע שלא. מסומן על ידי חושך, מעליו הוא יהיה לעלות בכוח והרצון. צל בתוך צל האור יהיה העיב על ידי חושך לובש את פניו של אלוהים. לאזן באמצעות מלחמה אם כי לא אדון יכול למצוא שלווה ואילו האויב קיים.

As soon as Trelawney had finishes she had immediately slumped into her seat and passed out. While she slept Dumbledore retrieved and old Syrian text from his shelf that contained a translation cypher for various old languages including Hebrew and Arabic. Using the codex he slowly interpreted the message into clear English. It had taken him most of the afternoon to review the memory in his pensive and unravel the prophetic message into a translation. Sybil was left stunned and seated as Dumbledore worked, he sometimes asked for the opinion of his fiery red familiar only to receive a melodious chirp to every question.

The sun was setting over the mountains outside his office window as the Headmaster wrote down the results on a sheet of parchment while he read it over and made some final corrections so that it was comprehensible in English and only a few minutes later he was finally done.

On the parchment in front of him now lay the translated prophecy:

_"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies ..."_

Reading it over Dumbledore began to analyze its meaning, _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches_, maybe a rival of the dark that could defeat and permanently kill Voldemort other than himself was to appear In the near future?

_Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies_, did that mean a child born in the end of July to parents that had faced Voldemort and lived three times? But what year, it must be close; it could not be a coincidence that he- Leader of The Light- of all people had heard the prophecy and now of all times, now when the dark was getting ever closer, ever stronger under Voldemort's reign of terror. Who had defied The Dark Lord three times? Dumbledore pondered for another minute before smiling; "Yes, it had to be the Potters or Longbottoms, both families had fought against Voldemort thrice and lived to tell about it, and both were to have a male child, estimated to be born in a few months in July…'

_And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not_. 'Did that mean Voldemort would seek to destroy the child of fate, but why, why would Tom personally seek out either family if he had no knowledge of the prophecy… was it possible the Dark Lord was meant to have knowledge of the prophecy, a clue? But how could he get that information to Tom so that it seemed both legitimate, and not coincidental. After a few moments of deep contemplation Dumbledore's brilliant mind had already devised a plan.

It was known to him that various previous Hogwarts students, most notably those from Slytherin, though a few came from other houses, had joined Voldemort and become one of his so called "Death Eaters." It was also known that a few passed through Hogsmeade as both recruiters and scouts sent to spy on him. Dumbledore would need to set up a mock interview with Trelawney and have a Death Eater catch at least part of the prophecy, translated of course. However this would also mean that he would have to hire the woman to keep her safe within the castle walls. Voldemort in turn would use the information he gathered and make his own choice.

However the child Tom picked would need to survive the attack, and be marked by Voldemort, and how else could a child be marked as an equal to one of the most powerful Wizards in history unless he took in a part of Voldemort himself? In other words as the headmaster had suspected Tom had already done at least once in his life the child would have to become a Horcrux. This would be something he would need to influence to come out in his favor, he must also be the one chosen to instigate the prophecy, why else would he of all people have heard it? The question was how to go about it…

_And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives._Dumbledore read the last part and was puzzled over the wording and its meaning for quite a while. Trelawney began to stir before he lazily stunned her out of reflex for the third time that day. 'Hmm, one had to kill the other, or allow for his defeat, directly or indirectly, and while even one of them lived the prophecy would still be in effect, meaning that in the end both must die at each other's hands, ensuring the prophecy is fulfilled and allowing him to move on with his plans. But what was the true definition of neither can live while the other survives?

Did the word count metaphorically or literally… and what about the part about either must die and the hand of the other; must, not will… could that be used as an obligation, or a circumstantial motive, or was it a definitive answer and or an essential requirement. Did it mean that only they could die by the others direct actions, or did it mean they could not die unless they killed each other, a loop of immortality that neither would want to escape into death.

He had to influence the outcome of this to be the most favorable one present; the good of the many must outweigh the good of the few. So Potter or Longbottom would be candidates for the prophecy, either one would work, but it was Voldemort's choice that would be the deciding factor, whoever he tried to kill by his own hand would need to be marked as his equal. If Dumbedore had to sacrifice a pureblood family like the Potters or Longbottoms to allow for the assured defeat of Voldermort to eventually occur then it needed to be made.

If as Dumbledore suspected Voldemort tried to kill the child with the killing curse as was his usual form of execution, did it mean he would consciously decide to make the boy into a Horcrux? He needed to make sure that Voldemort would fulfill the requirements and turn the child into a soul carrier, but the question was which child was most likely to be attacked. At first thought it was the magically strong pureblood line, the Longbottoms, but then again Voldemort had always feared what he could not control and disliked, he was a half-blood, so by order of logic based on facts few if any were privy to he would secretly think the Potter child to be the most danger, maybe seeing a part of himself in the child.

It was likely though that as a contingency he would send his death eaters to kill the other family anyways, but he would take care of the Potter child personally. Either way he would need to set up failsafe's in case of either outcome, but Dumbledore would be willing to bet a bag of lemon drops that his first guess was correct, after all, he usually was never wrong.

With this in mind Dumbledore turned towards the more present problem, how was Voldemort to attack the soon to be born Harry Potter and how would the "Prophecy" be overheard?

- Mar 05th 1980, evening-

Dumbledore savored the sweet and tangy flavor of his preferred candy as he exited his room, a room only ever seen by the Headmasters of Hogwarts that was located behind the bookcase near his desk. He continued to suck on the lemon drop as the spiral staircase toped with the large eagle statue descended and he walked out past the enchanted gargoyle guarding the main entrance to his office. The headmaster strolled through the empty corridors and hidden corridors of the ancient castle of Hogwarts. Seeing as it was summer break and the children were all at home; the passages were oddly muted and silent, a relaxing atmosphere to the usual noise of young witches and wizards bustling to class. The soft padding of his leather shoes echoed down the halls while he made his way down to the main entrance of the school. As he made his way past the main gates toped wither their winged hogs Dumbledore reviewed the information his brother Aberforth had sent him about the slight increase in activity by hooded individuals in his tavern leading up to tonight, it was obvious someone had taken the bait then.

Tonight he would seemingly be interviewing Sybil Trelawney for the first time. After he had obliviated her and sent her on her way with a few subliminal thoughts planted in her subconscious so that she would return for her meeting with the him Dumbledore had then subtly nudged Hagrid to leak the information out in one of his drunken babbling sessions that he was prone to at the Hog's Head Inn. Now that the bait was set he would spring the trap and begin the events that would lead to the fall of Voldemort. He would lead the light to triumph over the growing darkness, and his legacy would ensure the Greater Good lived on even after his death.

It took him another half hour to reach the small quaint town of Hogsmeade, just in time to watch the sun begin to set over the horizon and the stars to begin twinkling in the night sky. Dumbledore silently cast a disillusionment charm over his body so as to not gather any attention from any of the village's residents, and soon enough he arrived at his destination, the grimy and dark looking Hog's Head Inn. Albus casually walked through the doors and up to the bar where he taped three times loud enough for his brother to take notice. Aberforth glanced in his direction and nodded once, signaling that Sybil Trelawney had already arrived and that one of Voldemort's spies was already in the bar.

As soon as he made his way into the back room he canceled the disillusionment and paused just long enough for one cloaked and hooded individual who was paying the hallway an inordinate amount of attention to notice. Dumbledore made his way up the stairs to the second room, which was a small parlor and pushed the door open to reveal the shawled witch sitting in one of the high backed wooden chairs. He stepped into the room and gently closed the door while simultaneously casting a locking charms and detection wards before turning to fully face the sear.

"Ahh, good evening, Mis Trelawney, I see that you were able to arrive safely." Dumbledore smiled as he sat opposite the witch.

"Well yes, Headmaster, one cannot be too cautious in these troubled times, but my inner eye predicted that I would of course arrive without harm." She replied, the twinkle in the headmasters eyes going unnoticed.

"Yes well now, I'm a very busy man and have a few other duties to attend to tonight so shall we get started?" Dumbledore replied.

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	3. -SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES-

-SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES-

-PROLOGUE 2-

-Sep 18th 1981, late night-

Mist pooled on the dewy grass of the cemetery in Godric's Hollow, the silence ominous and muffled. The dark of the night obscured the pale moonlight hidden behind thick clouds while the gravestones and gothic crosses stood muted in the dark. The night was disturbed by a single flickering orange light that revealed an old vine infested and weather worn mausoleum that had its large stone doors propped open like two resolute guards watching, waiting, for anyone to enter into the crypt.

Vines of thick ivy snaked over the stone walls in an attempt to strangle out the presence of man and return it to nature; worn to almost illegibility the Peverell Crest and Coat of Arms was carved into the front edifice of the tomb. A stone relic almost forgotten as it sat not in the graveyard itself, but rather a few miles away through an almost invisible trail through forest and underbrush and a few loose stone and dirt outcroppings infested with stranglers and tree roots so heavily overgrown it was clear no one had set foot on it in over a hundred years. The Old Peverell manor itself had long since been abandoned and forgotten, eroded and left in ruins so only a few crumbled bricks remained and now only the stone relic of time was left to guard the final resting place for the ancestors of the Potter line.

If one were to follow the flickering light down the stone steps that descended into the bowls of the earth they would come across a medieval style grate that had each of its pointed iron bars pulled back far enough into the stone walls so that only the points shown so seamlessly they appeared fused to the stone to allow access. Continuing down the dusty web infested passage led into a square antechamber, each wall face a cardinal point on the compass and each with an alcove containing a cracked and faded stone statue of a different man. The first was holding what was clearly a wand as he attacked an unseen foe, ignorant of the shadowy hand with a raised dagger swinging down behind his back. The other statue had a large black crystal in his open palm while he prepared to hang himself from a noose as a hoard of bony hands reached for his legs from the base of the alcove. The final man stood proudly in his old age as he slipped a cloak off of his shoulders, the grim reaper with its skeletal arm draped over his visible shoulder like an old friend as they both stepped forward into the beyond.

At the center of the chamber on the tiled floor was a circular hole with a spiral staircase that led further down into a vaulted tunnel. The corridor opened up to a large circular room in which a very attractive redheaded woman stood in a thin green silk robe that reveled her nakedness underneath as the flickering light from wall mounted torches shown through; a green eyed unruly black haired baby wrapped in a blanket rested in her arms as it whined at the unfamiliar setting.

"Shhhhh, Momma's here, don't cry Harry, don't cry, shhhh." Lily crooned at her nine moth old son as she gently rocked him in her arms. She walked barefoot to the center of the cathedral like space that had a high stone ceiling supported by rows of thick granite columns that circled the perimeter of the room. The arched stone ceiling was like that of a basilica, though very simple and the walls were lined with niches and alcoves containing entombed skeletons of a family that had long since died out. Lily noticed little of this as she placed the now unwrapped and nude baby Harry into a simple stone pedestal that she had conjured to rise from the ground before stepping carefully over the runes drawn around her son with vials of her previously gathered blood and walked back to the edge of the room.

Looking around her Lily raised her wand and dimmed the torches to a dull red glow that barley lit the shadows as she thought back to the events that had brought her and her son here into the tomb of her husband's great ancestors.

(Flashback)

For the last few months she and James had been in hiding at the small Potter cottage in Godric's Hollow as the war against Voldemort raged on. Two months before her precious Harry was born Dumbledore had come to her and James and told them that he had come across information that was vital to their survival, the headmaster said that Voldemort had begun ordering strikes on the families of those that he had fought the dark wizard but escaped his grasp. Families that were important factors and contributors to the light or neutral side whether politically or financially were being hunted and killed in their own homes. For reasons unknown they and their longtime friends the Longbottoms were now in mortal danger from a direct attack form Voldemort and his two generals, Bellatrix Lestrange and Antonin Dolohov. Not long after under the advice of the headmaster she and James had left their home -Potter's Keep- and moved into their present safe house which was under the Fidelius charm thanks to Dumbledore.

Although Potter's Keep, a small two story mansion consisting of five rooms surrounded by five acres of land -which had belonged to James' Father Charlus and his wife Dorea Black- was well warded, it was also the most obvious place to hide. A direct attack from Voldemort could be held in stalemate, but eventually the dark wizard would be able to get through. The home that Dumbledore chose in Godric's Hollow was, unknown to them situated right next to where the headmaster himself had lived while in his teenage years. It was an unlikely place to look for the family of three, and since a Fidelius charm made it all but nonexistent to those who even knew about it was surely the safest place for her family to hide.

Or so Dumbledore had said.

Two months after having gone into hiding Peter was made their secret keeper, switching with Sirius, who had thought of the switch as a prank against Death Eaters and had eventually convinced her, James, and Dumbledore that it was the best option. Although she agreed with her son's Godfather on the bait and switch ploy as Sirius would be the most likely to be suspected as their secret keeper, she still thought that he would have been a better option as a secret keeper than Peter, she however conceded to Dumbledore's plan after he convinced her husband it was the best course of action.

That did not mean she wholeheartedly placed all her trust on Dumbledore and his decisions, since her first year at Hogwarts she had grown to respect the man, but she had always had a nagging discomfort when speaking with him. A certain small part of her mind always told her things were off about him, the way he spoke in riddle or allegory, the way he liked to keep things hidden, the way he acted so damn grandfatherly and yet there was always a baleful presence about him, a cold calculating look she had glimpsed once or twice that led her to believe he was always hiding something about everything he said and the way he portrayed himself.

Since she had gotten these feelings she had strived to act like everyone else did around Dumbledore, to see him as some Merlin or Jesus like icon, but as time went on she noticed then he gently pushed people into certain situations, he emitted a hidden influence on those around him. While both students and teachers, and magical Britain in general took his words as law; Lily felt it odd that no one ever questioned any of his actions or decisions. Although he was the acclaimed leader of the light, Dumbledore barley did anything to potentially better the magical world. The man had the influence and power, but he sat in his post as headmaster and let the earth revolve around him. These suspicions and his actions in regards to her family and her son had led her to investigate; although very quietly, the actions of the Elderly headmaster. After all, his slogan of "For the greater good" could be seen in a much darker light.

As a muggle born witch - a very smart and intuitive one at that, Lily had always strived to stay close to her roots and not forget about the muggle world while being a witch (although she never did reestablish her relationship with her bitchy horrible sister after the fallout they had when she first discovered she was a witch at the age of ten), because of this she realized just how backwards and bigoted the magical world was. In many aspects wizards and witches still lived in medieval and Victorian times, and most regarded muggles as barbarians, let alone the blatant racism, sexism and even classism present. The only way to get anything, to get ahead in the magical world was to be either filthy rich, or come from some pureblood European ancestry with various family connections.

By her fifth year at Hogwarts it became apparent that Wizards lived a two faced life, preaching morality and blood purity, social rules and ethics only to turn around and break every single one. It infuriated her that most purebloods could still act like they were above other sentient races and so called muggle filth and barbarians, and yet had muggles not invented forms of almost instant communication that could be used to send or receive information from a cross the earth while wizards still relied on owls to transport their mail? Muggles had computers and internet, which allowed a person to seek information instantly; they had phones and television, planes and cars. The muggle understanding of science, medicine and engineering was centuries ahead of wizards. Genetics, healthcare, construction, they were so much more advanced.

Muggle society was no longer as bigoted as it had been, they did not have slaves, and many supported or were indifferent to marriage of the same sex, marriage contracts were seen as antique and outdated and people married those they loved because they could, not having to rely on forced contracts in a race for political, financial, and social dominance. Concepts of pureblood and race superiority were seen as mostly obsolete, and although their government systems would always be corrupt in one way or another, they were not debased to the scale of that of the Ministry of Magic. Yet most wizards still regarded muggles as below them, they were so out of touch that even the muggle studies class offered at Hogwarts was over fifty years out of date.

Most of all, the three things that had always astounded her the most were how most Wizards regarded magic as the do all solution for anything, to them if they had magic they could do whatever they wanted as if they lacked common sense or logic; it did not matter exactly how the magic or what it affected worked, just that it did. In a world where simple physics could be seemingly ignored or broken, logical thought seemed to have fled for an almost uncaring laziness and attitude. It quickly became apparent to Lily that although the Wizarding world was full of magic, it had long ago lost its splendor and wonder for discovery.

In a wizard's point of view, simply because they had access magic they were superior to any other race or being whether muggle or other sentient such as goblins (greedy bustards that they were) or half breeds. Muggles had built cities and structures never conceived by wizards, they could heal sicknesses and ailments that were not even known by wizards; they could do so much more that wizards could ever image.

Another problem was based on this superiority complex most wizards and witches had, they were unfit and physically weak; if they lost their wands few could defend themselves against physical attack, a few quick punches and they would be down for the count. It was a rare case that a wizard or witch would be physically fit unless required by position.

The last problem that stemmed from these two is that what most of the wizarding population failed to realize even though all their detesting of how powerless and weak muggles were that in an all-out conflict with the muggle world they would be annihilated.

Lily had developed these ideas over the course of her studies at Hogwarts –though she kept them to herself-, and after graduation had secretly sent an application and thesis about possible improvements to spells, magic and the wizarding populace in general to the Department of Mysteries in the hope of actually making an impact behind the scenes, she was happily surprised after she had been accepted into the unspeakable program research division and sworn into secrecy. However Lily quickly discovered that even then that the problems with the wizarding world extended far deeper that she ever thought possible.

The ministry was a parasite of magic, of knowledge, of power. Every single worker under its employment, from simple clerk to the Minister himself was bound and tied and chained by the very system they supported under a mountain of oaths so binding and coagulated and overseen and written and reused by the old families and the old blood that it was a surprise anything ever got done. Any job in the Ministry could be a prison, not that many ever knew it. The Minister was told by his predecessor, of course only after being sworn in, that is if the predecessor survived his term of office.

Lily had of course realized after the fact, after it was already too late, that she would never be one to change the wizarding world.

The truth now unmasked, the true gravity of the problems of their world that she was now bound to, forced to, was but a symptom of a greater disease that had been growing like a cancer for a very long time. She was now obligated, by oath, by magic, to do the will of the Ministry. She realized that the system held her, her husband, many other good people back from doing what was necessary to end the war, to change the world. Even a powerful wizard like Dumbledore was chained to it now.

No one knew the full extent of the oaths they would take when joining the Ministry. They didn't hand over a stack of parchments on a person's first day. There was an oath upon applying. An oath at an interview. A few oaths upon starting as a paper-pusher, then as a junior researcher. A few more oaths at the research division if you survived the exposure to all the paper and rules. By the time was one was a capable employee of the Department of Mysteries; one was bound with oaths and contracts thicker than steel cable.

Meanwhile those shady people, those not officially indoctrinated into this system but with even some knowledge of its workings and a bit of coin could buy whole laws to protect themselves from people in the Ministry, people bound by oaths and old magic's. Good people hamstrung by once decent laws, now abused by the evil that slunk around in the corners of their society. The old ways, the ways of justice for those who escaped official notice, were denied.

There were laws that prevented Ministry oath holders from killing except in circumstances of direst self-defense and even then not always. There were laws that crippled and restricted the very people trying to win the war.

It was all a mess, all these purchased laws, all these private sanctuaries for evil.

They ministry was the strongest of the involuntary binding objects created by the week to control the strong. It was a system turned into a disgusting artifact. A binding tool.

Binding, Oaths, contracts, and Vows all enforced by magic. It was a horrible thing, searing Lily in the knowledge that she was but a caged dove in a gilded mansion.

Binding was the greatest of the secret arts of the wizarding world. The teaching of necromancy was illegal, unless done with a permit, a permit only issued to those willing to part great amount of monetary "donations" to the Ministry. The teaching of blood and soul magic were illegal. Period. No permits forthcoming. (Not that it had stopped her from exploring pieces of blood magic, including blood wards, over the years.) But the teaching of binding magic without a permit was the only kind punishable by assured death. So it was of course expected that the study of binding magic was reserved to the Ministry and the Ministry alone; reserved for the oath crafters who hid behind their useless titles and names of lawyers and barristers and solicitors and advocates and counselors for the rights of the individual and the many in various departments.

The Ministry oaths were wide and deep, but some of the components were old, some included by tradition, a tradition left out and hidden from the ignorant and unsuspecting muggle-borns like her. Of course all the true understanding, forewarning, and preparation for their culture passed from father to son, mother to daughter within the pureblood circles and the old and "Most Noble" of families. After all, any and every attempt to write it down was banned.

Lily knew that like all things, in hindsight, it should have been obvious, but the system was set up to blind and conceal the truth, to dazzle the new blood, the muggle-borns and first timers to the world of magic with this new thing that they had thought was once fiction, a fairy tale or a bedtime story of dragons and monsters and castles and warlocks and knights and princesses. The system was set to entrench and separate them from their roots, but leave them grounded and lost in the truth of the matter. While pureblood families could teach their child of magic, and politics, and secret hidden truths from the second they could crawl, muggle-borns were sprung upon with this knowledge at the age of eleven, there was no forewarning, no integration and no one for parents to turn to when their child caused these unexplainable things that deemed them paranormal or disturbed.

Until surprise! After eleven years of frightening and unexplainable events revolving about your child it turns out magic does exist and wizards and wizards are real! Your child is a witch or wizard, handshake, handshake, welcome to the world of magic! Here is your pamphlet, good day, now next in line… Lily could consider herself lucky that she was still accepted by her parents, and only lost her sister's acceptance. Others were not so fortunate, they and their families believed in their god or gods, they believed in heaven and hell or science and advancement and they refused to accept or wanted to oust the magical world. Oaths and obliviation and magical bindings were the standard solution used to enforce the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy.

As an unspeakable Lily had access to the truth, but could not speak of it, she had the knowledge, but could not share it. She now knew that the things that had seemed to be the pillars that held up the wizarding world were glass and sand, smoke and mirrors.

The International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy was useless and a joke. Persecution and fear that had begun early in fifteenth century Europe and lasted until the seventeenth century had left wizards of the Old World with a segregated mindset. In their own self isolation they came to believe that only seclusion would keep them safe. And for a time they were right. But they stayed secluded, they kept hidden in their little magical world safe behind oaths and spells and wards as they caught small glimpses of the outside world.

A world that had grown and changed and advanced more in the last hundred years that in the previous ten thousand as theirs began to stagnate and rot from the inside. The International Statute of Secrecy was signed in 1689… By wizards, an unofficial, unsanctioned treaty that was neither endorsed nor authorized by their own countries governments or ruling body. Like the thirteen colonies of the New World that declared their independence from Great Brittan the magical world had declared their own independence, except that they neglected to tell anyone but themselves.

Of course just because she was bound to the will of the corrupt and parasitic ministry did not mean that there were not some loop holes, not some left over wiggle room that with the right connections could quietly be used for her purposes.

And so she had set about writing extensive notes on her so called "research" under both the pretext that that it would eventually be used to aid the ministry and that it was also for her personal use. As long as she did not try to actually do anything with the information she was able gather that would go against her oaths then it was safe. Of course that meant she herself had set up secrets within secrets, truth hidden in lies and code disguised as reworded and known fact. Truths and knowledge and secrets to power that would be considered dark, that would have her imprisoned in Azkaban for life, have her family vanished, and her soul sucked out of her body if she was ever found out.

It was a simple truth, a truth to the sickness that plagued the world that was only a symptom in something far greater than she could know, but the right questions where never asked, the right directions were never faced, history itself had been erased and rewritten, hidden and locked away to hide something, something incomprehensible.

It only really mattered to her because of her son, because of Harry, she was bound, but he would not be, he would have her knowledge, and his strength to do what she could do no longer. Her precious child would be the unyielding spear of change, the unbreakable scythe that would shear away the sickness and corruption. Her notes would save him, her words and memories and her very soul would be his shield and foundation. The oaths she had given would not matter.

Wizards had no imagination, no drive or logic, they considered three spells originally created for humane purposes to be unforgivable while there were hundreds of other ways to maim, disfigure, torment, control, and kill with magic. They assumed only strong wizards could match strong wizards, that only strong magic could face strong magic. They thought that it took uncommon magic and elaboration, complication and flashy lights and wand movements to mean power when a simple solution, simple magic used uncommonly could do so much, a simple spell, powerfully applied could do more. They had a tendency to ignore wonder, and splendor, and so their imagination, their curiosity died out. They lounged in old but restricted knowledge, in accepted if incorrect fact, stuck in an era long past but unable to accept change, unable to advance. Science and technology, they were the oddity, they were the circus one went too for a glimpse of the strange, something possibly dangerous but unneeded, not really wanted and a sideshow at best.

The Ministry always did care more for appearances than anything else. To them appearance was more important than fact.

They couldn't see what was happening to them, to their world that was steadily dying except for the influx of new blood and new ideas from muggle-borns and half-bloods, but something was happening. Not that they could see what it was, this other world that they chose to ignore and to debase and to ridicule because from what they remembered it was not big, not flashy but gritty and uncouth and barbaric and uncivilized. They chose to ignore this other world they hid from and could not accept. They paraded their own empty ingenuity with their own empty facsimiles of what these others had accomplished through ingenuity and struggle, but it was something that worked; it was progress, and advancement and creativity and wonder and splendor and grit and so much more.

(Flashback end)

While she waited inside the dimly light chamber for the moon to rise in the sky Lily talked to both herself and her son as she caressed his smooth face in an adoration that any loving mother would have for her child.

"The common witch and wizard fear power – and adore it. This one paradox has guided and warped our world for at least four centuries, if not longer." 'But Harry would not be a common wizard, nor would he be bound.'

"The common man hated and envied power. But could not help to hoard it" 'But Harry would be power, he would show it could be given, and taken, that it was ruled by balance, a balance that no longer existed.'

'MY ideas might scare him, but they would scare him in a good way. A way that made Harry learn, that would make him cautious, that would point him in the right direction, and would open his eyes.

"Compare the present Wizarding World with the tales of Merlin. Consider how powerful the ones who made it into legend seem. How active. How supporting of the non-magical Kings they've allied themselves with. War mages and thinkers. Great magic users of incredible skill and power and imagination. Merlin. Morgana. Mordred. Ywain."

"How active Slytherin and Ravenclaw, Gryffindor and Hufflepuff were in the days before they created Hogwarts, in the days they grew in it and then taught in it. These were powerful men and women Harry. They always had followers and students, some enamored, some hoping to steal their secrets, some spying on them for others of power, some plotting how to bring the powerful to heel…"

"But the change in how magic was regarded came from people who feared considerable power, and yet wanted it for themselves."

"Weaker wizards began to band together, groups that would grow and grow until a Wizengamot formed and a Ministry of Magic, a controller of the powerful magic, magic that would eventually allow groups of weaker wizards to control the vastly more powerful..."

'The weak still ruled the world.' She thought to herself as her son giggled at her wondering fingers on his belly.

"But you will rule the week…" Lily smiled at her words, to any other person, even her best friends, even her husband, she would have sounded like some dark lady, but she understood, she knew of the lies that had watered down real magic until it was but a dull reproduction of its powerful origins. She knew the steps needed to ensure her sons future, her family's future, and the future of the world even.

"I do good things for bad reasons, I do bad things for good reasons, the questions is, does it really matter which one?" she whispered, "If they knew what I had done, and why, would they see me as good, or evil Harry?" Her son responded with a giggle at her arched brow and thin smile as he tugged at her fiery red hair.

Checking the time with a spell Lily once more reflected back on the path that had brought her to this defining moment in time, the fork in the rode that would decide the fate of her child and possibly the future of the world.

After marrying James only a year after graduating from Hogwarts with twelve OWLs she had posed as the dutiful wife with a career as a potions and charms mistress working for the Ministry of Magic, something Dumbledore had encouraged her to do while her husband and his best friend Sirius had become Aurors. In actuality she worked in the Department of Mysteries studying old magic, blood wards, runes, summoning, and soul magic. By common wizard standards she would have been considered a full on Necromancer, which made it all the more pertinent that no one ever learn of the things she studied or their purpose.

The war against Voldemort had begun wearing on the light side, their numbers were being devastated and he was growing in both power and followers every day; striking fear into the hearts of the wizarding world with a terror campaign of hit and run warfare and guerrilla tactics that the more reserved and conservative Aurors could not hope to compete with. The Order of the Phoenix was heard pressed to win any fights- a fact that led Lily to realize that wizards in general sucked at fights, especially those of the self-proclaimed light side, who in a live or die situation still tried to stun or capture death eaters while the death eaters held nothing back and threw around curses and mayhem without a care. So many good people on the light side died because they held onto and listened to the preaching of Dumbledore, only using stunners, hexes or weak curses while death eaters were throwing around dark curses and unforgivables. They would use insurgent warfare tactics and worked to cause maximum destruction and death leaving the light wizards to flounder helplessly. She tried to convince order members and Dumbledore to learn and employ better tactics themselves, to use stronger or deadlier spells, to fight fire with fire- but her words were unheeded, hell even the ministry Aurors did the same.

But now the tides would turn, and her son would grow to be the eye of the raging storm, a force of nature that would shake magical Britain to its core and wipe away the sickness like a raging flood.

Walking around the ring of various runic languages Lily studied the lines of script etched on the floor while she continued to speak to her son about the enemies he would face in the future.

On one side you have the Ministry of Magic and the Wizengamot with their parasitic existence, then there are the so called "Pureblood" elitist that control the Ministry Harry."

Her son responded with a burst of babble that babies were known to make.

"Then there is Voldemort, the epitome of wizard arrogance and stupidity in my opinion, well maybe apart from Dumbledore or the current Minister, forget that he is on equal footing with the old man in terms of power and experience, he is an idiot. He hates muggles so much and yet doesn't realize he is almost an exact replica of one of their stereotypical supervillains, he has a dark emblem, he has lairs, he is a self-proclaimed master of magic and Dark Lord and is prone to long monologues, and he even has minions Harry, minions. Can you believe the he only needs some kind of trademark laugh and he could be in a comic book? He even has the bloody catch phrases down pat; "I am lord Voldemort!" "You dare defy me insolent one!" "Bloody sod sounds almost like Darth Vader to me…" Her son giggle as he wiggled his small arms and legs in the air at the funny faces his redheaded mother was making in her attempt to mock the Dark Lord.

Thankfully her years of research would finally pay off, she and her husband might not survive this war, but her son would, he would be the catalyst to change the world. She had finally learned of the prophecy from her senior supervisor In the Department under the research and exploration division, Lurel Davis. Over the years they had become close friends, Lurel taking over a mentor role and divulging certain closely held secrets to her that he would not trust with anybody else, even most of their coworkers seeing as he was unmarried and had few if any real friends. What he had uncovered while investigating Dumbledore and his past as a favor to her had a great deal to do with the unconventional and untested ritual she had created. A ritual that would grant Harry two gifts, one to ensure his survival, and the other to ensure his life; both were due to countless sleepless nights over the years. Walking over to the diagrams and notes that lay in an alcove on the far side of the circular crypt she reviewed all the formulas and runes once more, they had to be precise and without error, one mistake and both of them would die.

James and Sirius were currently at an Order meeting with Dumbledore and the rest of the flaming turkey members and she had been left at home to take care of Harry. For the past couple of weeks Dumbledore's action had begun to worry her, no one else seemed to notice it but he took an inordinate amount of interest in her son, constantly asking about him and his health. He still had James invisibility cloak, his excuse was "to study it" but really why would he need to do so during such a time and especially since he had other ways to go unnoticed? Then the truth had come out; Lurel while working in the Hall of prophesies had sent her a short message that had filled in the final piece of the puzzle, but still left much to be answered.

The secured and warded letter had read:

Dear L

I have uncovered a new prophecy related to Voldemort and your son (possibly) that was locked by Dumbledore and a few other members under the Prophecy department, I managed to unravel the source magic, and was astonished to find it was a duplicate, one not originally given by the seer in question- one Sybill Trelawney, but instead a direct English translation:

_"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies ..."_

I was able to track said seer down, she happens to be at Hogwarts, in the highest tower (I think she is being both guarded and imprisoned) and without disturbing a few altered memories and compulsions I found I was able to extract the original through her subconscious transient perceptional memory and translated it from a subset of old Arabic and Hebrew using a cypher codex. I am not sure if Dumbledore mistranslated it on purpose, even though it is close in terms of general semantics. Here it is in English:

"_When Ramadan wanes and the tides of war turn the warrior of fate will be born. Thrice defied and enemy of the evil one, with powers he knows not. Marked by darkness, above him he shall rise in strength and will. Shadow within shadow the light will be clouded by darkness wearing the face of god. Balance through war though neither lord can find peace while the enemy exists. When Ramadan wanes and the tides of war turn the warrior of fate will be born."_

It's apparent he made many mistakes, by error of omission, mistranslation, or purposely remains to be seen, though I suspect it to be the latter.

Be careful, he's hiding something,

Your comrade LD

So she had been right in not trusting the old fool, after reading the letter it had only taken her a day to draw some important conclusions from both the mistranslated and original prophecy. Dumbledore had lied, he had probably lied about a lot more- even if he thought what he was doing was right and in the best interest of everyone and the "Greater Good" the simple fact was the people were being used, and dying just so things could be maneuvered into their proper place. Worst of all the old man was also trying to push the prophecy forward; the worst thing possible to do in terms of a prophecy was to force them or try to change them. He also had a plan that involved Voldemort and Harry, with her friend Alice's child Neville as his backup, and it would most likely lead to both of them dead at the others hand. The only question was if Voldemort was the "Dark Lord", and Harry "The one", then who was the Shadow Lord? Shadow implied he was also dark, but mostly unnoticed, based on the facts presented the only conclusion she could draw was that Dumbledore was the Shadow Lord.

Looking up from her notes and glancing at the magical chronometer she had set aside (she would have used her watch but it malfunctioned in high magical fields) she saw it was 11:55 pm. It was time. Striping off her robe and placing the neatly folded cloth in the alcove with her notes she proceeded to lie down in an adjacent and smaller circle of runes near her son. Lily took a deep breath to relax the nervous jitters she felt and hardened her gaze with confidence before she waved her secondary wand to open a slot in the crypt ceiling that using a system of mirrors and magically enhanced lenses would focus pure moonlight onto her son. She had set up both the mirrors and the ritual over the previous week. Harry had become restless and waved his arms and legs in agitation trying to find his mother as he looked around, but the magical ceremony would soon be completed and he would be back in her arms soon enough.

Lily's beautiful nude from lay in the center of the second smaller ritual circle in a position that mirrored that of the Vitruvian Man with both inner and outer rings of Latin script circling around her while she rested her head, feet, and arms into the five points of a pentagram. Silky ember red hair spread around her head like a fiery halo, her smooth white skin seemed to glow in the moonlight that reflected around the room before it all concentrated on her son. Pert C cup breast rose and fell while she took deep calm breaths as she began to chant in Arabic

Pushing the magic from her core into her voice as she began the ritual she glanced at the seven objects placed around her son in their own runic circles in a spiral pattern that followed the golden ratio; they were seven large obelisk shaped quartz crystals tinged red from her absorbed blood that hovered about a foot of the ground. Above lily was a larger obsidian crystal that had its hollow center filled with a unique potion that mimicked some of the properties of the fabled Philosophers Stone. White molten gold, the physical representation of purity in alchemy was mixed with another vial of her blood, the still burning stolen ashes of the Headmasters phoenix from its last burn were counterbalanced be the icy crushed feathers of an artic Roc, powdered silver with ground Dire Wolf bone marrow along with the pulverized scales from a Quetzalcoatl catalyzed the infusion of unicorn and Nundu blood, the potion was meant to cleanse, unify, and revitalize the mind and body and to dispel the mind of misdirection and distraction.

Lily's incantation picked up speed and began to echo around the chamber causing the runes etched into the floor to begin to glow with an ethereal violet ghost flames. As the clock struck twelve a thin beam of almost solid moonlight shown through the hole in the ceiling and bounced across the mirrors littering the room before being further concentrated onto the obsidian crystal, dissolving it into ethereal light that streamed into baby's forehead, its brightness causing Harry to cry out in distress; though it pained her to hear her child cry out she knew she could not stop the ritual until it was complete.

Her invocation began to pick up, taking a life of its own, weaving the song of love and comfort, care and protection into the air. A transparent image formed around Lily's body and floated above her, a ghostly shimmering duplicate that was tied by strands of energy into her soul, magic and mind. As her song intensified in pitch the runes lifted off the floor and began to form glowing torrents and patterns of swirling magic that whirled gracefully around the air wrapping around her copy and pulling it towards Harry.

The seven crystals were engulfed in violet fire that also streamed upwards and arched towards its center as the room filled with weaving auroras of color and magic while her song reached a fever pitch. Pushing all her love into her voice lily sang out the last stanzas of the ritual spell and watched as the tendrils of magic circled her son and drew in the moonlight while spiraling into his forehead. His body glowed with light and she lost her senses in a wave of energy that filled the entire space. For a brief instance of time she could see all the magic in the air, she could see inside herself, through herself, her bones and organs, the energy of her body, the atoms in the void of space and the vast universe around her, a coil linking her to her son. Then it was gone and the euphoria and wonder of seeing the universe so close left her sore and empty.

Light burst forth through the chamber as all the reaming energies collapsed into her screaming child.

Miles away a shockwave of magical energy passed through Godric's Hollow and resonated through the air, a brief ripple that would barley be seen with the naked eye.

Carefully standing up and walking back to her son Lily took heavy breaths and wiped the sweat from her brow, the ritual had left her muscles aching and her body exhausted. Glancing down she saw that the floor was left scorched and sooty with ash, no sign of the ritual she had performed left for anyone to discover except for the burns. Picking up the still crying Harry she looked down with total love and affection at her little boy, her miracle of life. Rapidly fading on the skin around his eyes, forehead, and chest were strange woven designs that were simultaneously complex and simple at once, beautiful tattoo like marks that accentuated his eyes.

"I will always love you Harry, no matter what happens you will always have me to protect you, in here." Pointing at his heart she snuggled her now sleeping son into her bare chest. She dressed, and then walking back to her notes she took her second wand and incinerated the pages before vanishing the ashes and then casting a transmutation rune caused the stone floor crumble into hard packed dirt. The papers in the alcove were enchanted to have left an exact copy in her secondary vault in Gringotts; which had been opened under the name of Rose Nightgale, the same vault where she kept most of her commissions from Unspeakable projects as well as all her research.

She then pulled a shimmering silver string of silver liquid from her temple and placed into a tiny black vial, before pulling a few more memories out of her head and then sealing it with a pinprick of blood from her son's finger. Placing the vial on the table on top of a letter she tapped both with her wand and whispered out her custom time delay Portkey spell; _Spartu-Trasferreum: Lurel D._ and then watched the vial warp into a small pocket dimension where it would be held in infinite stasis, it would only appear and unlock to its intended receiver if she left the mortal realm. That night all traces of magic were siphoned off and any markings of human disturbance were hidden under layers of dust, dirt, and webs. The Tomb left undisturbed, its stone doors sealed once more, vines and moss overgrowing the crumbling facade.

In a dark office hundreds of feet deep underground under the heart of London a quiet unassuming man sat in his executive leather chair as he poked and prodded the mysterious wooden cube of Rubix floating above his desk while taking meticulous notes on the reactions the cube gave off as its metal inlaid surface shifted and twisted about. Similar to its muggle counterpart, from which the man had copied its initial form, the cube was in fact a prototype dimensional storage device and tool set. Specific configurations of its many facets would open it, transform it into a multi portkey, a ward breaker, or cause it to attach to the nearest solid surface and merge together.

The office the man sat in was sparsely decorated and not overly large, occupying only a space of about five by six meters and had only a simple stone floor and plain walls lit by a large gas lantern in the form of a glass sphere embedded into the dull grey ceiling. Directly beside the door was a simple wooden perch for an owl to sit on. On the wall adjacent to the door was a scuffed and scratched oak bookcase filled to the brim with dusty tomes of reference material, indexes and diagrams. On wall opposite the entrance and behind the heavy wooden desk was a blatantly obvious safe that occupied almost half the wall; however its surface consisted of a large disk of ten equally spaced rings with evenly spread out runes circling each ring. The inner ring was about a hands width wide and served as a central dial while each consecutive ring had an increasing number of runes by a factor of five, so that the second ring had ten symbols, and the last and outermost ring had fifty. This gave the safe a total of 35,437,500,000,000 different possible combinations with only one being correct. On the opposite side of the bookcase were rows of filing cabinets containing important documents detailing various projects and points of research chosen by the man occupying the chair.

It was getting late and glancing at his large custom black ionized steel watch Lurel Davis noticed its various gold, rune inscribed interlocking rings that mirrored the appearance of the safe behind his back now read out {10:59 Oct 31 1981}. Standing to place the cube back into the safe he was about to reach out to align the rings when he noticed a vibrating noise emanating from inside it. After sliding the rings into their proper slot each consecutive ring slid back into the wall a few centimeters further than the previous one with a metallic thunk before sliding down into the floor. Lurel stepped into the expanded walk in closet sized safe and place the cube inside a velvet lined drawer before he reached to a smaller compartment labeled "Lily Potter". Pulling out a thick vanilla envelope that was not present this morning with rising trepidation he returned to his desk and held it in his hand before it unsealed itself. Sliding out the long slip of parchment he fell into his chair as he read the contents of the letter, a tear sliding down his eye and falling onto the paper.

Dear LD

If this letter has appeared in your safe and it is you and not Harry who is now reading it, it means that we were betrayed, Voldemort has discovered us and I am now dead. There are so many things I would like to tell you but for now I will write what is important for you to know. Sirius is no longer our secret keeper, though I am unable to say who it is you can guess. I independently analyzed the prophecy and came to the same conclusion as you, that Dumbledore is not what he seems. He is controlling people's lives, to what extent I do not know, but from what little I have learned his plots stretch back all the way to his time as a professor and maybe even further than that. I believe he has made himself into a figure head of light, but in reality he may have darker intentions. I do not know if he is doing it willingly under a misguided sense of justice or if he has lost his connection with people in his search for "The Greater Good", but I cannot put any trust in his actions or those of his closest allies. A muggle saying goes "The road to hell is paved with good intentions" and my son is heavily involved in his plans, I don't know what he wants but I will do anything in my power to protect my son, he means everything to me, I love Harry more than anything in the world... I performed the ritual on him, it was successful. Harry will grow to be the strongest wizard of all time, the bridge between the muggle and magical world, the bridge between magical races and wizards. Under whatever circumstances you cannot allow him to be placed with my sister, she is a vindictive bitch and her husband is even worse. They are the epitome of modern witch burners; please do whatever you can to ensure Harry goes to Sirius and if you can't do that - that he strictly be placed with the Longbottoms, the Greengrass family or with Andromeda Tonks ne Black his Godmother. Enclosed is a magically binding Gemino duplicate of my Will in case Dumbledore tampers with the original somehow. I implore you to watch over Harry, I can't stand the thought of losing him, you must aid him and train him not only in his magic but on the muggle world as well, Harry cannot grow into the shortcomings of wizards. Teach him all you know and more, I ask this as my last request to you as my mentor and friend, and thank you for aiding me in my research, without you I would not have known what to do.

With Love, your student and friend

Lily Potter.

Lurel scrambled from his office after having sealed the safe once more, it would take him an hour to reach Godric's hollow, but by then it would be too late, the house was empty, the nursery had a large hole blown into the back wall, and the surrounding are was teaming with uncooperative Aurors, Sirius could not be reached and Harry Potter had already been taken by Hagrid. It would take another day for Harry Potter to be dropped off at the Dursleys, and by that time Dumbledore had managed to seal the Potter Will, and enacted a few older bylaws that had him declared as the child's magical guardian. At the end of the week the Longbottom's had been attacked and placed in ST. Mungo's indefinitely, Harry Potter Had vanished from the magical world, and Sirius Orion Black was lying curled up sobbing in a maximum circuity cell in Azkaban.

Voldemort was defeated, but at what cost?

Review and reply


	4. -THE BOY WHO LIVED… condmend to hell-

-THE BOY WHO LIVED… condmend to hell-

-Nov 1st 1981, Early Morning-

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank - you - very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense or any nonsense at all in any shape way or form. They had always had little tolerance for anything out of the ordinary, anything that went against their perfect little world. If you were to ask the neighbors about their opinion on the Dursley's you would be told that they were perfectly good upstanding English citizens; a hardworking and pleasant father, a refined and kind mother, and a very spirited and energetic son. That however was a complete bucket of hogwash. Contrary to the way they liked to portray themselves to anyone else but the neighbors or any of Mr. Dursley's clients the family could be described as being arrogant, rude, and crass. The father was a bigot, often times racist, a complete sleaze, and had had anger issues to boot. With the table manners of a pig and body mass of a walrus it was by no means a kind portrayal of Mr. Dursley. Mrs. Dursley was a spiteful woman, poking her nose in everyone's business and spreading scandal and rumor like plague. She loved to see people suffer her lies, and could be quite hateful and conceited as well.

Mr. Dursley was the director of a small firm called Grunnings, which made drills. Dental and power tools were the market he sold to and he was damn proud of the business he owned. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. One could say he was almost obscenely overweight, but they were likely to have their teeth punched in if they were to ever mention that in front of said man. In contrast, Mrs. Dursley was thin as a rail and flat as an iron board, she had dull blonde hair bordering on brown and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors and spreading any sort of gossip possible, even if most of it was untrue. To complete their image of the perfect residential family the Dursleys had a small son named Dudley, and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere to be found. He resembled his father in a lot of ways, easy to anger, pudgy, whiney, and fat, but to them he was what a perfect son should be.

While the Dursleys had everything they could possibly want to fulfill their drab cookie cutter life's, they also had a secret; one terrible secret who's very though of discovery was their single greatest fear. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about _them…_ _The Potters_... Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met or even kept in contact for several years, ever since _that day_. For various reasons that she loathed to admit deep in her heart, her sister, and in turn her sister's husband were held as a taboo subject in the Durlsey household. In fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't even have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street, if anything having to do with their kind even so much as intruded upon their lives.

The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had never even seen him. This boy was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with a child like that. A child that could infect their son with his freakishness…

-Nov 1st 1981, Early Morning-

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on one dull, gray Tuesday to a sky slightly clouded and a light drizzle falling onto the pavement , there was nothing about to suggest that abnormal and freakish things would soon be happening all over the country. Vernon Dursley hummed a song he recently heard on the radio to himself as he picked his favorite grey tie out of a drawer. Glancing out the window he noticed a tabby cat sitting near the fence surrounding the back of the yard, a cat that was staring directly at him with an amount of focus uncommon to any animal. It was the same cat that had been roaming around his yard for the past two days, and could not be shooed away, even when he had come out with a shovel and tried to smash its furry little head in. He reminded himself to call animal control later in the evening when he came back from work to see if they couldn't get rid of the mangy pest; but even as that thought crossed his mind another intruded- it was odd that the fur on its face made it seem to be wearing spectacles, but that was absurd. Cats didn't wear glasses. Shaking the negative thought out of his head he proceeded to finish dressing. Meanwhile downstairs his wife Petunia gossiped away happily on the corded kitchen phone as she tried to wrestle a screaming Dudley into his high plastic chair, Unaware of anything else.

Outside a large tawny speckled owl fluttered past the window in a quiet swoop before circling back and landing on the vertex of number four's roof, completely unnoticed by a single resident of Private drive.

Vernon followed his daily weekday morning routine as he clomped heavily down the stairs and came into the kitchen, setting his briefcase at the entrance and not so gently falling into the chair at the head of the table. Glancing at the wall mounted clock he saw that he had half an hour to finish the stack of bacon, the pile of flapjacks drenched in syrup, and a small mound of eggs… sunny side up. Drinking from a large mug filled with dark roast coffee Vernon began to devour breakfast in a fashion not so dissimilar to his seventeen month old son. At half past eight, Vernon picked up his briefcase, pecked Petunia on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. "Little tyke," he chortled before leaving the house. He got into his steel grey Ford Capri and backed out of number four's gravel driveway.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of anything peculiar - a cat reading a map. For a second, Vernon didn't realize what he had seen - then he jerked his head around to look again. It was the same tabby cat from his yard standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. He blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back, seemingly glaring at him from its seated position. As Vernon drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the flea infested beast from his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive - no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs, and they certainly could not wear glasses. "Animal control won't be here soon enough" he grunted under his breath and decided to call them about this pest at work. He gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove west towards Reading for half an hour he thought of nothing except a large order of small caliper dental fixture drills he was hoping to get shipped in that day.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, which would probably make his trip to work last another ten minutes, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people walking about. People in cloaks, it was bloody unbelievable! He couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes - the getups you saw on young people these days, it was outrageous! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion that all the young sods wore just to annoy their parents. He drummed his thick sausage like fingers on the steering wheel as his beady eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdoes standing to close to his car. They were whispering excitedly together. Vernon was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck the large man that this was probably some silly stunt from a bunch of barmy nutters with no common sense - these people were obviously collecting for something... yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Vernon arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drill shipments and the long legs of the new blond secretary he had hired the previous week.

Vernon always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor of the management section of the building. It was fortunate that he did or he would have found his morning ruined be the sight of dozens of owls of every species in England swopping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did. Pedestrians pointed and gazed open- mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead across the entire sky going who knows where. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime, and while the people below marveled at the avian phenomenon occurring outside Vernon Dursley was enjoying his perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people because he thought they were slacking on their order placements and accounts verifications. He made several important telephone calls to a few companies and solo business located around London as well as calling for animal control to capture the annoying fleabag that had taken up residence in his yard, and shouted a bit more at one man he found talking to his blond secretary named Kristen. He even managed to get a feel of her arse as he left his office during lunchtime in a very good mood, completely ignoring her angry glare burning holes into his back as he left the office.

Feeling content with the day so far Vernon thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a tidbit of food from the bakery one block down from the Grunning's building. He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed, clenching one hand around his coin purse and squeezing the other into a fist as he sped up to pass them bye. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch of twits were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large bag of doughnuts, that he caught a few words of their whispered and not so discrete conversation.

He managed to overhear one sentence from a particularly odd man wearing a lime green cloak whose hair was in a greying disarray; "The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard yes, their son, Harry"

Vernon stopped dead as a cold chill was felt creeping down his back as fear flooded through him. He glanced with a squinty glare back at the whispering group as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it. Dashing back across the road, he hurried up to his office panting and out of breath, snapped at his secretary Kristal not to disturb him, seized the telephone on his desk, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down rather forcibly and stroked his mustache, thinking... no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephew was called Harry. He'd never even seen the little arsemonger. It might have been Harvey. Or maybe it was Harold. Well, there was no point in worrying his wife; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister or anything having to do with those freaks. He didn't blame her - if he'd had a freakish sister like that, one that used… _the M word_... but all the same, those people in cloaks still put him on edge...

For the rest of the afternoon Vernon was unable to concentrate on a single thing and even ignored the hissed "Sodding Tosser" his secretary threw at him in a viper like hiss as she dropped off a pile of documents to his inbox. Deciding to leave early at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door that had been blocking the exit.

"Bloody Git! Watch where your standing!," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Vernon realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak and a magenta top hat with various scarves tied around the base of the stack. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground by a very large and very rude man. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare as he grabbed Vernon's hands in-between his and began vigorously shaking them up and down in an overenthusiastic way.

"Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has been killed at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, for this is a happy, happy day!" Vernon stiffened as the old man hugged him around his substantial middle before walking off and despairing around the corner. Unable to form a coherent thought as anger started to blossom in his chest he stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger, touched by some freak. He was also sure he had been called a Muggle, whatever the bloody hell that was. He was rattled and his temper had begun growing, a steadily growing irritation since that morning when strange things began happening. He hurried to his Capri and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination. It was a useless thing to have when the here and now was what mattered, daydreaming like some nitwit would not put food on your table or be in anyway productive.

Pulling into the gravel driveway of number four with a screech of the brakes, the first thing he saw - and it didn't improve his mood, but rather was the cause of his face darkening in anger - was the tabby cat he'd seen that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes. Hoping that animal control would arrive soon he glared at the cat and squatted down to pick up a few rocks from the drive.

"Shoo you mangy flea bag!" Vernon hissed. The cat didn't budge. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? He wondered. Taking aim with one hand while his coat was draped over the other arm which was holding his suitcase he threw the first rock and watched it sail too far to the side. Taking aim again he threw once more and the spot hit right under where the cat was sitting. The tabby still refused to move and only hissed at him before calmly walking across the top of the wall and jumping into a bush. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house and hung his coat, today he would need a few shots of scotch to cool off while he watched the evening news. He was still determined not to mention anything about his strange day to his wife so as not to upset her, she abhorred even the slightest hint of anything strange.

Petunia Durlsey had had a nice, normal day. As they ate dinner she told him all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter dressing in black, coming in at odd hours, and becoming some "Goth slag" and how Dudley had finally learned a new word apart from "No" - ("Won't!"). Vernon tried to act normally, nodding at all the right moments, grunting his agreement and declaring that the neighbors were too soft and didn't know how to properly raise a child, unlike them of course. From the back dining room window, unnoticed by the family inside a tabby cat peered in as it had for the past two days and seemed to be watching intently at their conversation before it stalked off into the shadows as the Dursleys left the kitchen. When Dudley had been put to bed after another screaming tantrum where he had thrown his Action Man figure at the wall, he managed to get to the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

"….. and finally, bird-watchers everywhere across the UK have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls are nocturnal and normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed himself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"

"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early - it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight!"

Vernon sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the bloody Potters... His wife came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good he decided, he'd have to say something to her, even if it reminded her of her sister. He cleared his throat nervously.

"Er - Petunia, dear - you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?" As he had expected, Petunia looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.

"No," she said sharply with a glare that told him to end the conversation now, but against his better judgment he decided to proceed. "Why?" she asked him.

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls... shooting stars... and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today..."

"So?" Petunia snapped back as her hand began to shake, causing the tea cup to tinkle against the plate.

"Well, I just thought... maybe... it was something to do with... you know... her crowd."

His wife sipped her tea through pursed lips and he wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter" from the group of abnormal people he came across at work. Deciding he valued his ears more than his curiosity he didn't dare to face the wrath of one of her screeching lectures. Instead he said, as casually as a man of his predisposition could, "Their son - he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"

"I suppose so," his wife answered stiffly.

"What's his name again? Howard, isn't it?" a bead of sweat went down the side of his pudgy face and into the fold of his neck.

"Harry. A Nasty, common name, if you ask me. I'm sure it fits the little monster perfectly."

"Oh, yes," Vernon replied, his heart sinking horribly as the feeling of dread grew in the pit of his chest. "Yes, I quite agree."

He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed trying to put the darker thoughts out of his mind. While Petunia was in the bathroom doing her womanly business, Vernon crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. And the bloody tabby cat was still there, sitting calmly at the corner of the yard. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something. Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did... if it got out that they were related to a pair of - well, he didn't think he could bear it. His meaty fists clenched with suppressed annoyance. "Well at least we will never have to deal their sodding lot." He thought to himself before he got into bed with his wife, who had just exited the bathroom. While it was clear that Petunia fell asleep quickly by the sound of her deeper breathing he couldn't help but lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and his family, they had a clear and mutual dislike. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind... He couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on - he yawned and turned over - it couldn't affect them...

How he would come to regret those words for the rest of his life.

-Nov 1st 1981, Late Night-

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the tabby feline on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, resolute in its night watch, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly two in the morning before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome; the least insulting thing he would have been called by any of the residents was a pooftah or a nutter ponce. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something in one of its various deep pockets. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known…" "The compulsion would last that long…" he finished an almost inaudible whisper.

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be an elongated and ornate silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. Instead of a spark and a flame as was to be expected the nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again - the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him as they reflected the little ambient moonlight that pierced the clouds. If anyone looked out of their window now, even the beady-eyed Vernon Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the street through the almost pith black blanket that had fallen over Private Drive. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four at a clipped pace, where stood by the corner of the wall where the cat glanced up at him before letting out a mewl. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it casually.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black but greying hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

"My dear Professor, I 've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily. "May I remind you Albus - she emphasized his name – that you were the one to ask me the favor of scouting out this neighborhood, and in particular this house behind me. But Oh yes, I shout have gone celebrate, after all everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently with dry sarcasm. The older man only smiled at her annoyance from his prodding humor. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no - even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls... shooting stars... Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent - I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense of any kind, firing spells up into the air while near muggles."

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently trying to sooth away her exasperation. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors close enough for muggles to hear them, I'm surprised a team of Obliviators haven't been called out." She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really is dead, Dumbledore?"

"It certainly seems so," the wizened man responded. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?" he asked out of the blue.

"A what?" the professor responded in confusion from the question.

"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of"

"Oh yes, those nasty little sours you insist on handing out to everyone you speak with. No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who is dead -"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You- Know-Who' nonsense - for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops he had pulled out of the small bag he kept in his cloak, pretended not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name.

"I know you haven 't, said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too - well - noble to use them."

"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new fuchsia earmuffs."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped his rampage of death and destruction?"

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day for Dumbledore to arrive, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.

"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow, near your home. They're saying that he went there in search for the Potters instead of trying to attack Potter Mansion. The rumor is that Lily and James where apparently hiding there and that they are - are - that they're dead Albus... "

Dumbledore bowed his head, the smallest possible smile cracking the corner of his lips before his face became composed and somber and he looked back up at the woman beside him. Professor McGonagall gasped.

"Lily and James... I can't believe it... I didn't want to believe it... Oh, Albus..."

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know... I know..." he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall took a steading breath, a nagging sensation in the back of her mind at the question she was about to ask, a feeling that something was off about it, something she couldn't place her finger on before the feeling slipped away. Her voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's son, Harry. But - he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke - and that's why he's gone.

Voicing the statement brought that nagging feeling back, but she never had the opportunity to peruse that train of thought before the older man confirmed her suspicions, never wondering how it was that an event that had taken place only a day ago with no living witnesses except for a child had so rapidly spread by form of rumor or how everyone seemed to know what had happened even though only one living soul had been present.

Dumbledore nodded glumly at her.

"So it's - it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?"

"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know."

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took an ornate golden Alethiometer pocket watch from his cloak and flipped the lid over. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here tonight, by the way?"

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "You know how he can't keep his mouth shut about anything important the poor bumbling oaf" she said with a hint of affection. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me exactly why you're here, of all places, or why you asked me to scout this neighborhood that is full of the worst sort of intolerant and superficial muggles?"

"I've come to bring young Harry Potter to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now."

"You don't mean - you can't mean the people who live here?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four in vehemence. "Albus - you can't! I've been watching them for the past day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. This man, Dursley is a tosser and a prat to anyone that he doesn't like; his wife is a gossip hound and spoils their child rotten. And they've got this son, he's a complete twit, - I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. You would have Harry Potter come and live here! And that's not even the worst of it; Albus, these people-" she spit in vehemence, "hate magic, Hate it. They talk about Lily as if she where some sort of slag, and magic as if it were a disease. You think that they would not at the minimum dislike him for who his parents are, you think that they wouldn't be willing to mistreat him, or worse, sink to abuse?!" she explained in what was sure to become a tirade if Albus didn't put a stop to is soon.

"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly as he reassuringly placed a hand on her shoulder. "They are family, and even if they dislike or are against the idea of taking him in at first I assure you that they will accept him into their home, even if I have, ah… how do muggles say, oh yes, even if I have to persuade them." He winked at her in an attempt to lighten the mood as he peered over his half-moon spectacles with a twinkle in his eye "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."

Her annoyance had, oddly, almost disappeared at his joke before she processed the last part of his statement. "A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all… this… in a letter?" she emphasized her statement by casting sparks with her wand and pulling at her cloak. "These people will never understand him! He'll be famous - a legend - I wouldn't be surprised if today was remembered as the day Harry Potter defeated Voldemort - there will be books written about him, everyone will know his face and treat him based on this notion of what he is and not who he is - every child in our world will know his name, people will put him on some high pedestal of their expectations, and turn on him the second he doesn't meet them Albus!"

"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?"

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes - yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.

"Hagrid's bringing him." He responded in a lighter mood from the previous discussion.

"You think it, wise… to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?" she hissed at him in renewed exasperation, by God Albus would be the death of her with his carefree attitude on important decisions.

I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.

'Well of course you would, your Albus Bloody Dumbledore, you'd trust a bloody Death eater if he told you he had repented.' She thought begrudgingly, not knowing how close to the truth her almost prophetic thought was.

"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to - what was that?"

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky - and a huge black and chrome plated motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild - long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. He appeared by all sense to be some sort of giant, wild man. However the small cooing bundle of blankets he held in his vast and muscular arms with a gentle grip and a smile on his face revealed his true gentle nature.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved.

"At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Sirius Black lent it to me at the house before he apparated out, I think he was shouting something about needing to catch a traitorous rat. He asked me to take care of Harry until he returned and to not under any circumstance take him anywhere but hogwarts, but then I got your patronus message sir and came with little Harry as fast as I could. I've got him here, sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir - house was almost destroyed, but I got him out of Godric's Hollow all right before the Muggles and Aurors started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."

In less than a second Dumbledore had stepped back, hand raised out of his cloak and his wand glowing as he whispered 'Obliviate.' The look of surprise was erased in Professor Mcgonagall eyes as like Hagrid's they dilated for an instant before returning back to normal, the last ten seconds of conversation was erased from their minds, and any knowledge of meeting Serious Black that night was erased from Hagrids.

"You seem to have lost your train of thought my dear" he said as She and Hagrid cleared their heads.

"No problems, were there?" Dumbledore repeated.

"No, sir - house was almost destroyed, but I got him out of Godric's Hollow all right before the Muggles and Aurors started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol." Hagrid once more replied, ignoring the slight Déjà vu he felt as he presented the young Potter to both professors.

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where -?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well - give him here, Hagrid - we'd better get this over with."

Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.

"Could I - could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll wake the Muggles!"

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it - Lily an' James dead - an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles -"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low flower bed wall and walked across the lawn to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' this bike back to Sirius's apartment. G'night, Professor McGonagall - Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Harry, one day we will all fulfill our destiny," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing or horrible things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was more than just special, but rather something else entirely, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley... He couldn't know that at this very moment, people completely ignorant of the future that lay ahead were meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter - the boy who lived!"

Unseen and undetected in the large oak tree sitting on the neighbor's yard directly across from number four a jet black owl sat perched on one of the upmost branches. This owl was no ordinary bird however, as it was clearly a species that was not documented to have ever had inky black plumage. As the large giant like man left on the aggravatingly loud metal contraption that caused the owl to puff up its feathers and the other two figures finally left after light had been restored to Private drive, the dark owl finally took off into the clouded night in the direction that would lead towards its owner. In the unlit and now empty offices deep within the bowls of the ministry an owl perch stood directly inside of a door with a plaque that read; _Lurel D. –Head of Field offices, Unspeakable Division. __A single jet black feather lay at its base._


End file.
